The Westerners

by Zane Grey

  After Juan had a second drink, Vaughn slowly retarded the gait of his horse until that of Juan came up to his flank. Vaughn was careful to keep to the right of the trail. One glance at his captor’s eyes sent a gush of hot blood over Vaughn. The canyu had been slow on this tough fellow, but at last it was working.

  “Juan, I’m powerful thirsty,” said Vaughn.

  “We come to water hole bime-by,” replied Juan thickly.

  “But won’t you spare me a nip of canyu?”

  “Our mescal drink is bad for gringos.”

  “I’ll risk it, Juan. Just a nip. You’re a good fellow, and I like you. I’ll tell Quinela how you had to fight your men back there, when they wanted to kill me. I’ll tell him Garcia provoked you. . . . Juan, you can see I may do you a turn.”

  Juan came up alongside Vaughn and halted. Vaughn reined his horse just head and head with Juan’s. The Mexican was sweating; his under lip hung a little; he sat loosely in his saddle. His eyes had lost the beady light and appeared to have filmed over.

  Juan waited till the man ahead had turned a curve in the trail with Roseta. Then he lifted the demijohn from the saddlebag and extended it to Vaughn.

  “A drop . . . señor,” he said.

  Vaughn pretended to drink. The hot stuff was like vitriol on his lips. He returned the vessel, making a great show of the effect of the canyu, when as a cold fact he was calculating distance. Almost he yielded to the temptation to lean and sweep a long arm. But a ranger did not make mistakes. If Juan’s horse had been a little closer. . . .

  “Ah-h-h! Great stuff, Juan!” Vaughn exclaimed, and relaxed again; the moment for action would reveal itself.

  They rode on, and Juan either forgot to drop behind or did not think it needful. The trail was wide enough for two horses. Soon Roseta’s bright red scarf burned against the gray-green again. She was looking back. So was her escort. And their horses were walking. Juan did not appear to make note of slower progress. He had passed the faculty of minute observation. Presently he would take another swallow of canyu.

  Vaughn began to talk, to express more gratitude to Juan, to dwell with flowery language on the effect of good drink—of which canyu was the sweetest and fieriest in the world—of its power to make fatigue as if it were not, to alleviate pain and grief, to render the dreary desert of mesquite and stone a region of color and beauty and melody—even to resign a doomed ranger to his fate.

  “Ai, señor . . . canyu is the Blessed Virgin’s gift to the peones,” said Juan, and emphasized this tribute by taking another drink.

  They rode on. Vaughn asked only for another mile or two of lonely trail, of uninterruption.

  “How far, Juan?” queried Vaughn. “I cannot ride much farther with my feet tied under this horse.”

  “Till sunset, señor. . . which will be your last,” replied the other.

  Juan could still speak intelligibly, but he was no longer alert.

  They rode on, and Vaughn made a motion to Roseta that she must not turn to look back. Perhaps she interpreted it to mean more, for she immediately began to engage her guard in conversation—something Vaughn had observed she had not done before. Soon the guard dropped back until his horse walked beside Roseta’s. He was a peon, and a heavy drink of canyu had addled the craft in his wits. Vaughn saw him bend over and loosen the rope that bound Roseta’s left foot to the stirrup. Juan did not see this significant action. His gaze was fixed to the trail. He was singing: “Ai, querida chata mía.”

  Roseta’s guard took a long look back. Evidently Juan’s posture struck him apprehensively, yet did not wholly overcome the interest that Roseta had suddenly taken in him. When he gave her a playful pat, she returned it. He caught her hand. Roseta did not pull very hard to release it, and she gave him a saucy little slap. He was reaching for her when they passed out of Vaughn’s sight around a corner of the green-bordered trail.

  Vaughn gradually and almost imperceptibly guided his horse closer to Juan.

  “Juan, the curse of canyu is that once you taste it you must have more . . . or die,” said Vaughn.

  “It is . . . so . . . señor,” replied Juan.

  “You have plenty left. Will you let me have one more little drink My last drink of canyu, Juan! I didn’t tell you, but it has been my ruin. My father was a rich rancher. He disowned me because of evil habits. That’s how I became a ranger.”

  “Take it, señor. Your last drink.”

  Vaughn braced every nerve and fiber of his being. He leaned a little. His left hand went out—leisurely. But his eyes flashed like cold steel over the unsuspecting Mexican. Then, as a striking snake, his hand snatched the bone-handled gun from its sheath. Vaughn pulled the trigger. The hammer fell upon an empty chamber.

  Juan turned. The gun crashed. “¡Dios!” he screamed in a strangled death cry.

  The leap of the horses was not quicker than Vaughn. He lunged to catch the bandit—to keep him upright in the saddle. “Hold, Star!” he called sternly. “Hold!”

  Star came down. But the other horse plunged and dragged him up the trail. Vaughn had his gun hand fast on the cantle and his other holding Juan upright. But for this grasp the frantic horse would have unseated him.

  It was the ranger’s job to manage both horses and look out for the other guard. He appeared on the trail riding fast, his carbine held high.

  Vaughn let go of Juan and got the gun in his right hand. With the other, then, he grasped the Mexican’s coat and held him straight to the saddle. He drooped himself over his pommel, to make it appear he had been the one shot. Every second also he increased the iron leg grip on the horse he straddled. Star had halted and was being dragged.

  The other bandit came at a gallop, yelling. When he got within twenty paces, Vaughn straightened up and shot him through the heart. He threw the carbine and, pitching out of his saddle, went thudding to the ground. His horse bumped hard into the one Vaughn rode, and that was fortunate, for it checked his first mad leap.

  In the mêlée that ensued Juan fell off Star, to be trampled under hoofs. Vaughn hauled with all his might on the bridle. But he could not hold the horse, and he feared that he would break the bridle. Bursting through the brush the horse ran wildly. But presently he got the horse under control and back onto the trail.

  Some rods down he espied Roseta, safe in her saddle, her head bowed with her hands covering her face. Then Vaughn called eagerly, as he reached her.

  “Oh, Vaughn!” she cried, lifting a convulsed and blanched face. “I knew you’d . . . kill them. . . . But, my God . . . how awful!”

  “Brace up,” he said sharply.

  Then he got out his clasp knife and in a few slashes freed his feet from the stirrups. He leaped off the horse. His feet felt numb.

  He cut the ropes that bound Roseta’s feet to her stirrups. She swayed out of the saddle into his arms. Her eyes closed.

  “It’s no time to faint,” he said sternly, and carried her out off the trail to set her on her feet.

  “I . . . I won’t,” she whispered, her eyes opening, strained and dilated. “But hold me . . . just a moment.”

  Vaughn enfolded her in his arms, and the moment she asked was so sweet and precious that it almost overcame the will of a ranger in a desperate plight.

  “Roseta . . . we’re free, but not yet safe,” he replied. “We’re close to a hacienda . . . maybe where Quinela is waiting. . . . Come now. We must get out of here.”

  Half carrying her, Vaughn hurried through the brush along the trail. The moment she could stand alone he whispered: “Wait here.” He ran onto the trail. He still held his gun. Star stood waiting, his head up. Both horses had disappeared. Vaughn looked up and down the trail. Star whinnied. Vaughn hurried to bend over Juan. The Mexican lay on his face. Vaughn unbuckled the gun belt Juan had appropriated from him, and put it on. Next he secured his notebook. Then he sheathed his gun. With that he grasped the bridle of Star and led him off the trail into the mesquite, back to where Roseta stood. She seemed all right now, o
nly pale. But Vaughn avoided her eyes. He mounted Star.

  “Come, Roseta,” he said. “Up behind me.”

  He swung her up and settled her on the saddle skirt.

  “There. Put your arms around me. Hold tight, for we’re going to ride.”

  When she had complied, he grasped her left hand with his where it fastened in his coat. On the moment he heard voices up the trail and the clip-clop of hoofs. Roseta heard them, too. Vaughn felt her shake.

  “Don’t fear, Roseta. Just hang on. Here’s where Star shines,” whispered Vaughn, and, guiding the nervous horse onto the trail, he let him have a loose rein. Star needed not the shrill cries of peones to spur him into action.

  VI

  As the fleeing ranger sighted the peones, a babel of shrill voices arose. But no shots. In half a dozen jumps, Star was going swift as the wind, and in a moment a bend of the trail hid him from any possible marksman. Vaughn’s poignant concern for Roseta broke and gradually lessened.

  At the end of a long straight stretch he looked back again. To his intense relief there was no one in sight.

  “False alarm, Roseta,” he said, craning his neck so he could see her face, pressed cheek against his shoulder.

  “Let ’em come,” she said, smiling up at him. Her face was pale, but it was not fear he read in her eyes. It was fight.

  Vaughn laughed in sheer surprise. He had not expected that, and it gave him such a thrill as he had never felt in his life. He let go of Roseta’s arm and took her hand, which was fastened in his coat. And he squeezed it with far more than reassurance. The answering pressure was unmistakable. A singular elation mounted in Vaughn’s heart.

  It did not quite render him heedless. As Star turned a corner, Vaughn’s keen glance took in a widening of the trail blocked by the motley crew of big-sombreroed Mexicans and horses he had been separated from not long before that day.

  “Hold tight!” he cried warningly to Roseta as he swerved Star to the left. He threw his gun and fired two quick shots. He needed not to see that they took effect, for a wild cry pealed up, followed by angry yells.

  Star beat the answering rifle shots into the brush. Vaughn heard the sing and twang of bullets. Crashings through the mesquites behind, added to the gunshots, lent wings to Star. This was a familiar situation to the great horse. Then for Vaughn it became a strenuous job to ride him, and doubly fearful owing to Roseta. But Star appeared gradually to be distancing his pursuers. The desert grew more open with level gravel floor. Here Vaughn urged Star to his limit.

  Roseta stuck like a leech, and the ranger had to add admiration to his other feelings toward her. Vaughn put his hand back to grasp and steady her. And it did not take much time for the giant strides of the horse to cover miles. Finally Vaughn pulled him to a gallop and then a lope.

  “Chata, are you all right?” he asked, afraid to look back, after using that compelling epithet.

  “Yes. But can’t . . . hold on . . . much longer,” she panted. “If they catch us . . . shoot me first.”

  “Roseta, they will never catch us,” he protested.

  “But . . . promise,” she entreated.

  “I promise they’ll never take us alive. But, child, keep up your nerve. It’s sunset soon . . . and then dark. We’ll get away sure.”

  Again they raced across the desert, this time in less of a straight line, although still to the north. The dry wind made tears dim Vaughn’s eyes. He kept to open lanes and patches to avoid being struck by branches. And he spared Star only when he heard the heaves of distress, but at length Vaughn got him down to a walk.

  “We’re . . . far . . . far . . . ahead,” he panted. “They’ll trail us till dark.” He peered back across the yellow and green desert, slowly darkening in the sunset. “But we’re safe . . . thank God.”

  “Oh, what a glorious ride,” cried Roseta between breaths. “I felt that . . . even with death close. . . . Vaughn, I’m such a little . . . fool. I longed . . . for excitement But for you. . . .”

  “Save your breath. We may need to run again.”

  She said no more. Vaughn walked Star until the horse had regained his wind, and then urged him into a lope.

  The sun sank red in the west; twilight stole under the mesquite and the palo verde; dusk came upon its heels; the heat tempered to a slight breeze. When the stars came out, Vaughn took his direction from them, and pushed on for miles.

  The moon brightened the open patches and the swales. Vaughn halted the tireless horse in a spot where grass caught the moonlight.

  “We’ll rest a bit,” he said, sliding off, but still holding to the girl. “Come.”

  She fell into his arms; when he let her feet down, she leaned against him.

  “Can you stand? You’d better wait a little,” he said.

  “My legs are dead.”

  “I want to go a few steps and listen. The night is still. I could hear horses at a long distance.”

  “Please, don’t go far,” she entreated.

  Vaughn went back out of earshot of the heaving, creaking horse, and turned his keen ear to the gentle breeze. It blew from the south. Only a very faint rustle of leaves disturbed the desert silence. He held his breath and listened intensely. No sound! He returned to Roseta.

  “No sound. It is as I expected. Night has saved us,” he said.

  “Night and canyu. Oh, I watched you, ranger man.”

  “You helped, Roseta. That bandit who led your horse was suspicious. But when you looked at him . . . he forgot. Small wonder. . . . Have you stretched your legs?”

  “I tried. I walked some, then flopped here. . . . Oh, I want to rest and sleep.”

  “I don’t know about your sleeping, but you can rest riding,” he replied and, removing his coat, folded it around the pommel of his saddle, making a flat seat there. “Give me your hand Put your foot in the stirrup. Now.” He caught her and lifted her in front of him, and, settling her comfortably upon the improvised seat, he put his left arm around her. Many a wounded comrade had he packed this way. “How is . . . that?” he asked unsteadily.

  “It’s very nice,” she replied, her dark eyes inscrutable in the moonlight. And she relaxed against his arm and shoulder.

  Vaughn headed Star north at a brisk walk. He could not be more than six hours from the river in a straight line. Cañons and rough going might deter him. But even so he could make the Río Grande before dawn. Then and then only did he surrender to the astonishing presence of Roseta Uvalde, to the indubitable fact that he had saved her, and then to thoughts wild and whirling.

  “Vaughn, was it that guard or you . . . who called me chata?” she asked dreamily.

  “It was I . . . who dared,” he replied huskily.

  “Dared! Then you were not just carried away . . . for the moment?”

  “No, Roseta. . . . I confess I was as . . . as bold as that poor devil.”

  “Vaughn, do you know what chata means?” she asked gravely.

  “It is the name a vaquero has for his sweetheart.”

  “You meant it, señor?” she queried imperiously.

  “Lord help me, Roseta, I did, and I do I’ve loved you long.”

  “But you never told me!” she exclaimed with wonder and reproach. “Why?”

  “What hope had I? A poor ranger. Texas Medill! Didn’t you call me ‘killer of Mexicans’?”

  “I reckon I did. And because you are that, I’m alive to thank God for it. Vaughn, I always liked you, respected you as one of Texas’ great rangers . . . feared you, too. I never know my real feelings. . . . But I . . . I love you now.”

  In the gray of dawn, Vaughn lifted Roseta down from the weary horse upon the bank of the Río Grande.

  “We are here, Roseta,” he said gladly. “It will soon be light enough to ford the river. Star came out just below Brownsville. There’s a horse, Roseta! He shall never be risked again. In a hour you will be home.”

  “Home? Oh, how good! But what shall I say, Vaughn?” she replied, evidently awakening to facts.r />
  “Dear, who was the fellow you ran . . . rode off with yesterday morning?”

  “Didn’t I tell you?” And she laughed. “It happened to be Elmer Wase . . . that morning. . . . Oh, he was the unlucky one. The bandits beat him with quirts, dragged him off his horse. Then they led me away toward the river, and I didn’t see him again.”

  Vaughn had no desire to acquaint her with the tragic end that had overtaken that young man.

  “You were not . . . eloping?”

  “Vaughn! it was only fun.”

  “Uvalde thinks you eloped. He was wild. He raved.”

  “The devil he did!” ejaculated Roseta rebelliously. “Vaughn, what did you think?”

  “Dearest, I . . . I was only concerned with tracking you,” he returned, and even in the gray gloom of the dawn those big dark eyes gave him a start.

  “Vaughn, I have peon blood in me,” she said, and she might have been a princess for the pride with which she confessed it. “My father always feared I’d run true to the Indian. Are you afraid of your chata?”

  “No, darling.”

  “Then I shall punish Uvalde. . . . I shall elope.”

  “Roseta!” expostulated Vaughn.

  “Listen.” She put her arms around his neck, and that was a long reach for her. “Will you give up the ranger service? I . . . couldn’t bear it, Vaughn. You have earned release from the service all Texans are proud of.”